Angra
Holy Land

THE REVIEW

I don't know, and honestly, I don't care much, what drives hundreds of millions of butts daily to move in a gesture more or less athletic and fluid like the natural act of running. Diet and the race for the summer body? Not for me; gyms disgust me, the chase for Brad Pitt's abs and the treadmills that keep us still in a room full of mutual envious glances are an embodiment of sadness. I'm afraid of the couch, the box that gave the name to the room next to the kitchen and the living room. I need daily sensations that make me say: I am living. What drives me from April to October, once the workday is over, to untie the knot of the tie and slip on my mountain running shoes, is the desire to exert effort, but not in the masochistic sense of the word. It's technically called "catching your breath." When after a good handful of minutes, it seems like you have no more, when your heart is pounding, when drops of sweat cover your eyes, when you taste of salt: that's when it's time to accelerate. Suddenly, if you're well-trained, the body gets used to the effort, and you find an oasis of air, a pouch of energy, and you feel free and light. A pure form of freedom which I enjoy almost daily among rocks, roots, trees, and dozens of km of space from a cross placed at 1700 meters overlooking the valley. I am drenched in sweat, in ecstasy, excited and relaxed: I am fucking alive!!! I watch the sunset and take out a beer from my backpack, sipping it slowly, while my heart returns to normal.

But you can't always run outdoors, and hence the books that pepper my shelves. When a person isn't used to reading, they keep looking at the pages. "Today I read 50 pages." "How far have you gotten? Well, I'm on page 120." "Holy shit do you think I asked how many lousy grams of pasta you ate or what the heck sauce you used?" It's nice to read when you get into the story, ignoring the pages, and you manage to empathize with the characters and situations. You read when you kick the book that disappointed you and transmitted nothing, and you're not afraid to leave it justifiably incomplete at the mercy of perpetual dust. Sometimes it's nice to root for the villain, maybe described in a more captivating way than the protagonist, and then the feeling of feeling your body slowly fall asleep with a good book is truly sublime. The brain shuts down with a smile...

Music has been there for me in a particularly dark time in my life. What was simmering inside me I wanted to let out in the form of music. Hours spent listening, trying to find something that could resonate with my mood. Albums are divided into two categories: immediate and enigmatic ones. Between these two extremes, there are a damn near-infinite number of in-betweens. Enigmatic ones shouldn't be confused with the bricks: granite pieces that, despite being streamlined by hundreds of listens, will always remain deep. The first sensation, like when you've almost blackened all the squares on a crossword you thought you could solve, is to give up. It doesn't convince you, the grape is sour, and the blank puzzle on the next page is muuuch riper. But over time you grasp something you didn't initially catch, and with each listen, the album rises like homemade bread. An album as stimulating and fascinating, as an attractive and mysterious woman, I haven't found yet (is it why I read, run, and listen???) and perhaps that's what drives me to regularly enrich my collection.

Nonetheless, "Holy Land" by Angra is one of those albums capable of giving me strong and full sensations even after 15 years. It's an immense work that manages to intertwine melodies never banal, but elegant, with ethnic inserts, tight riffs, and reflective and melancholic pauses. The guitars chase each other in fast solos, then stop in sophisticated arpeggios, and the orchestrations, the backing vocals are in perpetual ambush. They break in when you least expect it. Every track has memorable passages: the hypnotic rhythm section of "Nothing To Say", the desperate and light lament of Matos in "Silence And Distance" and "Holy Land". The pinnacle of a record I am not afraid to define as Everest-like unfolds in "Carolina IV", combining theatricality with anticipation, power with restarts, and sudden ethnic stops. And that damn piano gets inside me and never leaves. And if that violin underscores its beauty, if all this happens, even if it's the hundredth time I listen to it, the hairs on my arm stand up: I feel capable of anything, running breathlessly, and ten seconds ago, I was still. This is music!!! Growing hope in Matos's vocal plucking in "Make Believe"; the bass steps in with ever-greater resolve alongside the orchestrations and gives rise to a burst of positive energy. Classical tragedy in "Z.I.T.O.": seemingly a power ride much more complex and rich in nuances as the minutes progress with monstrous guitar and symphonic work. Brazil and the ocean in the sweet and melodic "Deep Blue" with a chorus that frames Matos up there among my all-time favorite singers.

ilfreddo